


Christmas Lights

by NorthernRose



Series: The Poor Wren, Will Fight [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Healing, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, London, Past Abuse, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Sansa needs a lot of cuddles, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Therapy, Winter, lots of hope, there is hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRose/pseuds/NorthernRose
Summary: Sansa thought it would be quaint, a little jaunt into the city, to see the Christmas lights, pick up some last minute gifts, drown herself in mulled wine in the little pub she likes near Hyde Park, but she’s already at her wits end, no matter how pretty the lights. They are pretty though. It reminds her of being a girl again, on her father’s shoulders, making the journey from Greenwich to the West End each year, to take in the lights and go to Harrods. She too old to ask Ned Stark to oblige her, no doubt he would if she did. So she’s come alone, for the first time since she has been free again, since she has been Sans once more. It isn’t the same.She shouldn’t have thought it would be.*Recently added to the series; The Poor Wren, Will Fight.Title of the series is an adaptation of a quote taken from Shakespeare's Scottish Play.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Joffrey Baratheon (past)
Series: The Poor Wren, Will Fight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598029
Comments: 59
Kudos: 147





	1. Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know I should be continuing with my other multi-chapter fic right now, but a jolly little jaunt into London last weekend had me feeling festive and half in love with my city, this little idea sprung from that. 
> 
> This is angsty Sansa, making decisions that may not be the best for her, but she is coping and healing from past trauma in her own way. Please heed the tags.

Sansa has no clue what she’s doing here, not one. Seemed like a good idea this morning, sat in her cottage in the Kent countryside, outskirts of London, finished assignment on her laptop, emailed to the editor and no more deadlines now till New Year. She had some free time, nothing to submit to her publishers. Now she’s here, in the depths of Carnaby Street, just one week before Christmas, with half of the other souls in London she guesses.

Went in to Liberties to look for something pretty for her mum, a new scarf or trinket, she appreciates brands that have been around longer than the Queen, likely not caring for the gift itself, as long as it has the right name, but who is she to judge? She gave up before she made it to the concessions on the first floor.

Sansa thought it would be quaint, a little jaunt into the city, to see the Christmas lights, pick up some last minute gifts, drown herself in mulled wine in the little pub she likes near Hyde Park, but she’s already at her wits end, no matter how pretty the lights. They are pretty though. It reminds her of being a girl again, on her father’s shoulders, making the journey from Greenwich to the West End each year, to take in the lights and go to Harrods. She too old to ask Ned Stark to oblige her, no doubt he would if she did. So she’s come alone, for the first time since she has been free again, since she has been Sans once more. It isn’t the same.

She shouldn’t have thought it would be.

Her parents are proud of her though, no matter the last five years. At twenty-seven, she’s published, she just had her first article in the Guardian, her father’s favourite paper, he had cried when he had read it, coffee stained and half chewed by the dogs when it had thudded onto the welcome mat. She had also used her inheritance from her grandmother to pay the deposit on her cottage, moving further out of London and into Kent, the one part of her she had never let Joffrey have, thank god, she must have known, on some deeper level, that it would all go to shit.

Yes her cottage may have been build during the reign of a Stuart King, and there isn’t a straight line in the whole place, but she loves her wonky little piece of calm, she even grins and bares the hour train journey into London when she needs to with as much grace as she can muster. It had been her haven, when she had finally left her five year relationship, if you could call it that. Was it a relationship if your partner monitored your spending and made you cut off your family and friends, dig after dig until your self-esteem was no more? No, she knew that now, he wasn’t a partner to her, he didn’t treat her like she was anything other that his. Property. A bauble. A thing to control. Thankfully, slowly, she wasn’t that girl anymore.

Half way through her unsuccessful shopping trip and festive prowling of a sparkling London, lights twinkling in the early darkness, sky like pitch by 5pm, breath fluttering before her like a frosty banner, she had cracked thirty minutes ago, texting her brother, Robb, demanding his sympathy at her current predicament as she wrestled shoppers and revellers who had started their Christmas parties far too early in the day by her reckoning, but she cannot moan at their enthusiasm, she’s the one gagging for a drink. Robb’s reply was swift and instantaneous, with promises to meet her at said favourite little pub near Hyde Park, he’s never let her down a day in his life, despite her five-year absence from his, and she knew he wouldn’t start now.

She had and hour and a bit before he finished work. She debated getting the tube, but honestly, that is laziness beyond her comprehension, she lives in the countryside now for goodness sake, the outdoors in her bones, and she makes the happy battle against the shoppers up Oxford Street. Her reward is the cosy pub, with one table left not too far from the little fire which is heartily stoked. She nabs it without preamble, throwing her Belstaff on the table without care before going to the bar.

Yes, she orders a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Yes, the whole bottle. Yes, she’s on her own. No, she doesn’t care. It was one of Joffrey’s favourites too, she ordered it in spite of that, him having tainted far too many of the things she loved as it was. She’s bitter about that too. She knows that’s not healthy, that Arya would quirk her eyebrow in silent judgement if she were here, but six months isn’t enough time to heal from that stage of her life. Six-hundred months wouldn’t be enough. So she will drink his favourite wine, not because she likes it anymore, it tastes like ash in her mouth, but because it makes her feel, something at least, and she feels so little these days, there are only two things that make her feel much at all, living vicariously through her writing, and well… the other… was as wonderful as it is foolish. A wonderfully foolish mistake.

She’s on her second glass when Robb arrives. If he notices the wine on the table, he makes no mention as he kisses both of her cheeks.

“You look nice,” he grins, taking a hearty draught of his Guinness, she laughed at that, he’s obviously had a long day, longer than her, typing away on her laptop all morning with a pot of earl grey in her cottage, whilst he pounds the corporate beat, “harassed, but nice.”

“You’re sweet, but so would you if you decided to do your shopping today,” she snipped, more at herself than anything, “but alas, there is always a pub at the end of the rainbow.”

“Always,” he grinned, “are you ready for Christmas?”

“Of course, thank you for trying to get mum to chill out about the whole thing,” Sansa said, frowning to herself.

“Don’t worry about it, dads been doing prep for weeks, she means well, she just worries.”

She knows this. They all worry. Anyone would worry about their loved one who was trapped in an abusing and controlling relationship for five years, and Robb is trying, really trying. It’s like nothing has happened almost, always closer than the others, they had just fallen back into step, from the moment she called him, screaming incoherently when enough was finally enough, when she knew if she stayed she would die, one way or another. He had come, immediately, to the house in Sussex that had been her prison, calling an ambulance and the police the instant she fell into his arm, but that felt like a lifetime ago now.

“I’ll be fine,” she stated, another sip, then another, wine burning a path down her throat.

“Will you?” Robb countered.

“Will I what?” Sansa diverted with ease and practice, finishing her second glass.

“Be ok, Christmas, back at mum and dads… it will be the first Christmas we’ve all been together in a while… I know it’s been a hard year for you…”

She sighed, he was desperately sweet, her dear brother, her greatest supporter after Ned Stark. A daddy’s girl. A brother’s girl.

“It’s been a tough year for all of us Robb… Brexit, global warming, an man with far too much blonde hair as our Prime Minister, I’m nothing special, you don’t need to worry about me,” she said flippantly.

“Ok _Miss-I-freelance-for-the-Guardian_ , I always worry about you, more than anyone, you’re my best friend,” he said.

“Liar,” she scoffed, “I’m not your best friend.”

He grinned ruefully at her, his trademark Robb Stark smile, ignoring her as he topped up her glass. She raised her brow at him in silent challenge.

“Stay at mine,” he shrugged, “don’t bother with the train back, too bloody cold.”

It was quite the charm, having a brother with a flat in Sloane Square, a tiny thing, but Sloane Square nonetheless. Bravo Mr Corporate and his prime crash-pad, where she had spent many a drunken evening after far too many drinks to avoid the long train journey back solo to the country.

“You’re a treasure, I’ll get us a chaser, shall I?” She beamed, a booze addled evening with her brother may not be the sanest response to her half-hearted trip down memory lane today, but it was effective all the same.

“My hero,” he drawled, pulling out his phone and tapping away as she turned towards the bar, not before ruffling his errant curls in the way she new he hated on face value, but loved secretly.

She stood at the bar, two deep, debating which whiskey Robb would like and artfully dodging the wandering stares of the bloke down the bar in the three-piece that screamed _I’m a broker sweetheart, it just gives me that buzz, you know_ , when she heard the tell-tale laugh behind her, deep and rough, like bark on a tree, like wood in the log-burner in her cottage.

Turns out her perfect dear of a brother was really a bastard.

She could practically feel his stare on her back, as she turned her attention to the barman, ordering three whiskeys instead of the original two, before balancing them in a triangle between her hands and turning back towards their table.

Jon Snow. The real best friend of her brother’s. The Junior Doctor, saving the NHS one life at a time. The walking epitome of all her sexual fantasies come to life.

So, it was going to be one of those nights. She huffed dejectedly, feeling her cheeks flush as she weaved a path back to their little spot.

“Sans,” he nodded his head, reaching up to help her with the drinks, their fingers brushing together, sparking like a dried-up Guy on Bonfire Night. The last time she had seen him the very same fingers had been between her legs, whilst the other hand pinned her arms above her head, but it wouldn’t do well to dwell on that now. It had been the night of Robb’s thirtieth, which followed the day of her first session with her new therapist, apparently you can fuck away your feelings. Who knew? That had been three months ago, he’s busy, she knows, finishing his training, paying his dues at Great Ormond Street, and she’s been busy too, avoiding him obviously.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said, trying to sound as breezy as possible, feeling his eyes rake across her. That’s how she had gotten into this mess in the first place. His eyes, his arms, his bloody smile.

“It’s been a while,” he said simply, the implication there nonetheless, _I called you, I texted you, I wanted more._

 _You didn’t respond_.

She hadn’t.

She couldn’t.

“It has,” she smiled, but into her drink, not at him.

“Jon’s been murdering the hours at the hospital Sans, the twat needs to relax more… told him we were here and he owes me a pint or several,” Robb said, nudging his friend, who ran a hand through his inky hair, she’d done the same, that night in his flat, as he held her up against the wall.

“I’m here now,” he sighed, “no on-call, no shift till Sunday,” she could hear his smile whilst she resolutely ignored his gaze.

“Good, it’s been ages since we’ve all had a drink together,” Robb continued before wincing at his own words. It had been ages, years in fact, since she had become cut off from her friends and her family, “Sans, I’m…”

“Don’t say you’re sorry Robb, it’s the truth, the truth doesn’t hurt me, it isn’t your fault,” she swallowed resolutely, knowing the next would be difficult to say, but imperative, for her and her brother both, “it isn’t my fault either, but it is the true all the same,” she said, covering his hand with hers and squeezing it for good measure.

She felt it then, Jon’s hand, blazing a trail of heat across the small of her back, as he rubbed circles that she was sure he meant to be soothing across the bottom of her black roll-neck. Why did he have to do this? Tender, sweet Jon Snow, who touched her like she would break, who was good and funny and far too kind to her when she gave him nothing back. She flipped her hair, copper red and wind tousled like the flag whipping above the palace, over her shoulder and he halted his hand immediately, dropping it back down to his side. Even now, that grated her, that he knew on instinct, that she found no comfort in his touch.

Wasn’t that the truth of the matter? Jon Snow read her better than anyone, yet he had no right to. He always had though, since she was a teenager, and every time she had seen him since, despite him keeping her at arm’s length, but that was before Joffrey, and he had certainly read her that night those few months ago, as he made her come over and over, making her feel everything, until she felt nothing.

“What brings you to our side of the river Sans?” Jon asked. Diversion. Helping her avoid Robb’s concerned gaze.

Why was she here? What had she needed today? Distraction, absolutely. Nostalgia, the reimagining of childish fantasies, of the stories she loved in the midwinter of England. Family. Wine. Warmth.

 _To feel_. That is what she had wanted, it’s what she had always wanted these days, and she rarely found it. That was the crux of it.

She flicked her gaze across the crowded pub, windows fogged, patrons bustling towards the bar, the promise of gin and beer and sin in their eyes. Laughter, camaraderie and friends from across the world, thrown together in an odd collection that was so very London. Table with a faint stickiness underhand, if it was from the varnish or the beer, no one knew. Her eyes rested on the lovely Christmas tree in the corner, real and pine and European, no doubt, adorned with twinkling lights that if you squinted, faded and glowed softly together. She took it in. It was heaven, that little pub, heaven and home, as she lowered her eyes before taking another sip of her drink, smiling to herself into the rim of the crystal cut glass.

She rose her head to meet his stare for the first time, abandoning the well of the bottom of her tumbler, mouth heavy with wine and whiskey and pain, taking in the depths of his beautiful eyes, so grey and cold, but the warmest things that had ever looked upon her as she told him…

“The Christmas Lights. I came for the Christmas Lights.”


	2. Selfish

The night continues as such evenings often do. Revellers in Christmas jumpers, paper crowns and tinsel, pouring out into the streets, aglow under the restored streetlamps, harking back to Victorian London. They leave the comfort of her little pub, moving on to another, it’s quainter, dark beams, brass taps on the bar down one of the little back streets near Green Park, stones throw from Robb’s flat.

It was Jon’s suggestion to move on, he had visited the pub before, promises of an Ale on tap that Robb will die for had swayed it. She knows there is no chance of losing Jon Snow to the night now. She’s resigned to it, despite initially ignoring him and finds she doesn’t mind. Liquid courage, her father would call it. In wine there is truth. Truth is Jon is lovely. Truth is, she likes him, always has. The first boy she had ever liked. He hadn’t liked her back. He had shown the briefest sliver of interest, four winters ago now, and then there had been Joffrey.

Joffrey’s gone now. Jon and Sansa are still here.

She smiles at his at his jokes, idiotic as they may be, she doesn’t laugh though, cannot find it in herself to. She’s scolded him and her brother both, for singing _Little Drummer Boy_ at the top of their lungs through the streets. She’s rarely seen Jon so carefree. She teared up when he told them about some of his patients. Jon Snow has no right to be so bloody wonderful. She discovers Theon calls him Dr Delicious to torture him, she finds little to argue about with that.

Robb is well and truly blasted, she hasn’t seen him like this since the night after she returned home, since he saved her from Joffrey, she knows he would argue she saved herself, much to her horror. It’s a different kind of drunk though, that night he had been inconsolable, in rage and despair. Now he’s just happy, drunk on whiskey and love and the festivities of the city, arm slung around them both as they sit at the bar, proclaiming the Ale Jon had told him about as nectar of the gods, and his sister as the prettiest star in London. She doesn’t miss when Jon quietly agrees.

She knows she’s pushing her luck. Sansa’s avoided being alone with Jon for even a minute. She even thinks he’s sparing her, he would, bloody typical Jon Snow and his fucking honour. It makes her angry. It makes her feel calm.

She is aware she is running on borrowed time. In the last five years, little has apparently changed about Robb, but his intolerance to handle mixing his drinks and back-dooring it when the night gets too much for him hasn’t. He doesn’t normally drink this much when its just them, but she knows he’s letting loose because Jon’s there. Robb trusts him. He shouldn’t, if he knew that having Jon’s head between her legs was the greatest single feeling she’s ever felt in her entire life.

Robb socially smokes, he will deny it to high heaven, and if Catelyn Stark ever asked, he would swear on Queen and country he had never taken a pull, but get a couple of drinks down him and the dusty and wrinkled pack of Superkings comes out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket quicker than you can say figgy pudding.

Jon used to smoke, in their teens. Abhors the stuff now, in only a way an ex-smoker can, but she supposes it doesn’t support the modus operandi of Junior Doctor extraordinaire if your chaining it outside Accident and Emergency. Robb always offers though, he does tonight as he pushes from his bar stool, unlit cigarette between his pearly teeth, russet hair wild now from the wind and the cold and likely the booze. Jon shakes his head, muttering something about them killing him, and _he bloody wont get mates rates when he needs treating for it_. Robb swears at him, its blue by even his standards, shouting God Bless the NHS as he ambles outside, that gets him a half-hearted cheer from the table of students near-by.

This is the moment. Borrowed time gone. Hour-glass empty. Alone at last. Her mind automatically flutters back to the last time they were alone in Jon’s little flat in Aldgate. He loves it, despite moaning about the Circle Line, but who doesn’t moan about the Circle Line. He had kissed her. She’d kissed him back. Her heart had pounded against her rib cage for the first time in years that night. He would have gone slow, but she hadn’t allowed it, and he’s made her fall apart again and again, her name on his lips as she arched into him, just about making it through the door.

She wonders if he’s thinking the same. Most likely. He’d wanted more, his promises whispered against her lips and temple later, in the early hours of the morning as they sky outside his flat turned from black to blue to grey. She’d let him, she shouldn’t have. It only made it harder.

He’d called and called. Hadn’t left her alone for days, weeks, till he finally relented. She never told a soul and wonders if he did the same.

She can feel her cheeks burning, from the shame and lust she cannot help but feel when he is anywhere near him in equal measure. It’s an intoxicating combination, especially now she knows what he can do, with his hands and his mouth.

The ugly truth is that Joffrey had not made her feel good in years. In fact, she hadn’t had anything but selfish partners before Jon. She thought receiving oral sex was something magazines hyped up. Fucking hell was she wrong.

She thinks that had been part of her problem after her night with Jon. It has been good, better than, it had been everything. She had thought it was wanting to emulate the high of multiple orgasms that brought her mind back to Jon so often in those initial days. Good sex. That’s what she thought she needed. She should have known better than to lie to herself.

It was more than that.

It was Jon.

But she didn’t deserve him, and she loved to punish herself, it was easy and safe after years of doing so. So, she ignored him, rejecting his calls and avoiding gatherings they would both be at. Unhealthy. Her therapist would have a field day.

“Sans,” he starts, of course he would.

She sighs, turning her head to the side and out the window to the string of lights spanning across the street, a row of snowflakes, white lights twinkling, one after the other, she squints her eyes to watch them fade and glow as her vision blurs. She feels the weight of his hand on hers and turns back to him, she can’t help it, she knows she has to look at him, but she fears what she will see.

Grey on blue. He looks at her. He likely sees too much, more than she would like and repeats her nickname like a mantra as his thumb dusts across the top of her hand. She wants to turn over her palm and lace their fingers together like Christmas garlands. She doesn’t, she whips her hand from under his instead and swirls the cucumber around her Hendricks and Tonic.

“Sans,” he soldiers on anyway, maybe she isn’t the only one who is a glutton for punishment.

“Beautiful,” he says simply, tracing her cheek with the hand she just carelessly discarded from her own. She scrunches her eyes, ignorance is bliss and if she cannot see his lovely face she can pretend for just a moment that he doesn’t really care for her, that maybe he sees her as just another notch on his bed-post, but that’s never been Jon Snow’s way.

So, she opens her eyes, she is a Stark after all, and she can be brave. She should know she doesn’t often get what she wants. Sansa sees nothing but softness in his winter eyes. She sees how he wants her too, looks like it could kill him how much he wants her, his control really is impeccable.

“Don’t Jon,” she whispers, because it’s easy.

“Don’t what? Act like you haven’t spoken to me in three months? Act like you didn’t leave whilst I was still asleep? Act like nothing happened, like any of the things that were said didn’t matter? No, I won’t. I can’t lie like you, no matter if its easier.”

He’s silent after his little speech, he isn’t wrong though. She has done all those things. Yet, despite the conviction behind his words, he hadn’t raised his voice once, and he says the words like it pains him, yet she knows she needs to hear them.

She missed her cottage in that moment. Wishes she hadn’t come out, plonked herself on the train with childish notions of walking under the Christmas lights, eyes filled with mirth and laughter. Silly, foolish girl.

He sighs again. He sounds aged, works too hard, a broken heart will do that too, she should know. But he’s not in that deep with her, just thinks he is. Jon wants the Sansa that doesn’t exist anymore. The one that went to the same Uni as him and drank cheap shotss when she watched him with other girls that were not her, she was just Robb’s little sister then.

She looks at him as he sighs and knows immediately, she shouldn’t have.

“I wish… I wish you would just let someone treat you how you deserve to be treated.”

“You couldn’t,” she answers immediately, “you aren’t that cruel,” she sets her jaw, she knows her eyes are empty, they have been for years.

She leans back away from the bar, having leant closer to him throughout their little chat, but he isn’t having any of it and takes hold of her hand again, fingers ghosting along her wrist, thumb chasing her pulse point.

“You deserve everything Sansa Stark. You deserve to laugh, to smile, to fuck and love whoever you fucking want, and I will be beside myself when that day comes again, and it will, even if it isn’t with me.”

It’s probably the nicest thing a member of the opposite sex has ever said to her, despite his bravado, under the glow of the fairy lights adorning the bar, so she says the only thing she can. _Nothing_. It’s easier, its cowardly, but its all she can give him now, maybe ever, maybe not, but its too soon to say, and they seem to both know it.

Robb is making his way back towards them, looking somewhat worse for wear, so she takes her out, toys with his fingers for a beat, then could murder herself where she sits for the way his eyes light up, before fleeing like the coward she really is, no matter how hard she pretends, to the safety and isolation of the Ladies Room.

In the safety of the loo she doesn’t cry. She’s compartmentalising it all too till later but as she admires the Victorian tiles paired with the industrial lighting that the pub has ironically adorned the toilets with, she cannot stop herself from thinking about his hopeful face and perfect, godlike eyes. But it will not do, not really, now is not the time, so she runs her fingers through her copper tresses, pinches her cheek like a Bennet sister would, and makes her way back to Jon and the disaster that is now her utterly blasted brother.

Robb is, quite expectedly, draping himself over Dr Delicious and wrapping his arms around his neck like a scarf, Guinness, whiskey and pale ale, although a rather festive combination, are apparently deadly to her overtired and overworked big brother. Jon will help her home with him, back to Robb’s flat, this becomes fact when he nods his head once at her, frown adorning his dazzling face. She never would have doubted or worried about having to wrangle Robb alone, the happiest and most loving drunk alive, Jon’s far too good for that, which in her book, is half the problem. Life would be far easier if he just treated her a little bit like shit.

Sansa flags a taxi as they fall out of the pub, one-hundred-year-old door crashing unceremoniously behind them. Jon and Robb are arm in arm, linked together like schoolgirls, she has no idea why, but it makes her smile, it makes her laugh in fact, giggle bursting from her lips without warning. Despite his drunken state, the noise makes Robb startle and Jon halts their steps. Robb laughs too, because she’s laughing, and he hasn’t heard the noise in so long. Jon, well… he looks on helplessly, like she’s just offered to rearrange the stars in the sky to his liking.

“Get in, you bloody idiots,” she snips haughtily, sarcasm has always been an easy way for her to cause diversion, but it works nonetheless, as Robb proclaims her his princess as Jon tries to get them to settle in the back of the taxi.

The good doctor rambles off the address to the Cabbie, who huffs in acknowledgement, it’s a ridiculously short journey to Sloane Square but with Robb in his current state, needs must, she’s just devastatingly grateful that the Cabbie leaves them to it and doesn’t launch into a debate about Brexit. No amount of gin would ever prepare them for that.

Cabbie paid on the curb, as Robb theatrically whispers that he’s so glad Jon is here, which he incidentally is whispering to Jon, she fishes the keys out of Robb’s jacket whilst their companion distracts him. Sansa realises, as they make their way inside, she will likely be alone with Jon again soon. She’s not worried per say, she would just rather avoid it, all of it, the awkwardness, the pain, the want, the fucking temptation.

She shouldn’t have worried though, there is never the need with Jon, who it appears, after depositing Robb in his room and shaking his head at her offer of a glass of water is already heading towards the door.

“You can stay…” she begins, politeness ingrained from the age of three, but he interrupts her, a gentle shake of the head, turning back to face her.

“I can’t Sans…” he stops a beat, looks down, looks up, “I’d do anything you ask, you know that, but the last time…” he huffs, blinking rapidly, “the way it was left before, it nearly killed me.”

_The way it was left before._

The way she left it. She never acknowledged it. She walked away, like he was nothing and ignored his calls and attempts at contact for weeks. She used him, she imagines that how he feels.

_And it nearly killed him._

Isn’t that the problem? She is selfish, always has been. Old habits die hard and all that, because really, in all of this, she’s just been worrying about herself. No man has ever seen her as more that a pretty little thing to take to bed, she hadn’t anticipated that Jon would be any different. But its Jon. He’s always been different. Of course, it would have meant more to Jon Snow, but she hadn’t cared enough. And it had nearly killed him.

“…I can’t do it again Sans,” he continued, and she’s determined to take the words, cut after cut with his proverbial knife because she deserves to hear it, “I’d do anything for you, Sansa Stark, if you would just let me.”

He turns away, wrenching the door open to the dim, early hours of a new London morning, fog ridden, but the twinkling Christmas lights still glow softly across the square, the cold running up her legs as he pauses on the threshold.

Don’t, please don’t.

He turns back, taking the few strides betwixt them with determination, threads his beautiful hands that can heal everyone is this city except for her into her hair, the hair she knows he adores, because he whispered it into her ear that night as she clung to him, and leans forward and placing a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers.

This kiss sears her skin long after he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking maybe one more chapter?


	3. Hopeless?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day dawns for Sansa and the Starks, and a visitor...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have left some notes at the end of this fic as to where I see this going.  
> Your comments have been so helpful and really helped shape this one. 
> 
> So please enjoy, this sentimental and melancholy festive gift, from me to you. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, to you and yours.

Sansa is mildly hopeful, when Christmas Day dawns, all blue sky, crisp London air. She knows a white Christmas is largely a myth in these parts, hasn’t been one in her lifetime, but the fact that it isn’t pelting rain sideways is a good omen, as festive omens go.

She hasn’t spent Christmas with her family in five years, not since Joffrey had her. Possessed her. That’s all she was in the end. An object. She isn’t any more, this she knows, but that fact alone doesn’t make her feel like a _something_ , a _someone_. She is kind of floating, mid-air and alone, a nomadic existence of not really feeling like she belongs anywhere, but here she is all the same.

Sansa left her wonky little cottage on Christmas Eve, she already misses it, cosy log burner, wine rack filled, but she knows she needs to do this. Her therapist had made her set small, personal targets in the beginning, and this had been her first. Christmas with the Starks. She had spun it as making it up to them, for leaving them, making good on abandoning her family for five years. Her therapist had told her that was her first mistake. That is should be for _her_ , it wasn’t her penance. Her therapist was as irritating as she was right, she calls her Maggie Thatcher in her head, she has the same severe look and haughty frown as their countries once Premier, but Sansa rather likes her.

So, she’s here, left her little village outside of Sevenoaks for her childhood home in Greenwich. She loves it, a blustery South London haven. Felt calm as soon as she walked up to the Georgian steps, fingering the grey, embossed wolf knocker on the stain glass adorned door. She should visit more often, she knows it has a peaceful effect on her, Therapist Thatcher tells her that this is why she doesn’t, because Sansa doesn’t believe she deserves the peace. Irritating and right indeed.

She’s been back of course, since she left Joffrey, but it still knocks the stuffing out of her. Key still fits in the lock, still smells of pine and a biting wind that can only be found adjacent to the River Thames and whatever her mother is cooking, like the oven was put on thirty years ago and hasn’t been turned off since, a constant cycle of baking, casseroles, roast dinners, home.

She had spent Christmas Eve with Robb and her dad, banished, as was the tradition, whilst their mother did ungodly things to a Turkey that could easily feed the entire borough of Royal Greenwich. Poor Ned, her darling Papa, had linked her arm like a trooper as she dragged him around the market, whilst Robb had the gall to lie about some pre-arranged pub catch up with Jon and Theon. It had been nice, Sansa and Ned Stark, doing Sansa and Ned Stark based activities in near silence. She had always loved his steady quietness, and as they grew to know one another again in the past months she had found his calm demeanour as helpful as ten sessions with Therapist Thatcher.

It was oddly reassuring and equally unnerving how little had changed in the Stark Household in the last five years. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Her role as Catelyn Stark’s culinary wingman had remained unfilled, so she slotted back in nicely. Come Christmas morning, she was laying out smoked salmon like no time had changed, batting away her siblings attempts at stealing food and levelling them with a glare worthy of their mother.

Before Joffrey, Sansa had always dressed the table for Christmas dinner. She’s not sure when it started. Her father would always joke that she had taken over from the age of three. The previous day, when Robb had asked her what this year’s theme for the table was, as was her one time custom, she had blanched at his words, spluttering earl grey everywhere, tears stinging her eyes.

“Who has been setting it the last few years?” She had asked, desperately fearful and eager to hear the answer all the same.

“No one,” Ned had answered without preamble.

Robb shortly pulled her half into his lap and a bear crushing hug as she sobbed into his shoulder. Hence her and her father’s hasty dash to Greenwich Market on Christmas Eve of all days. The table was adorned with moss and fresh heather she had commandeered from the florist, candles flickering like lights behind eyelids. Her mother had proclaimed it a triumph, her best year yet. More tears. It was exhausting and exhilarating, and she could have worshipped at Arya’s feet when she accidentally dropped a freshly opened beer on the floor, causing it to spray everywhere whilst their mother howled as Arya threw a wink at her elder sister.

“Bloody beautiful Sans,” Robb grinned, handing her a glass of prosecco which she wordlessly accepted, eyeing it reverently, “but you’re short a space,” he smirked over his glass.

Sansa frowned. She should have trusted the hairs that pricked on the back of her neck.

“Seven?” Sansa questioned, “Seven Starks, you know mum isn’t inviting all and sundry, in case I have some sort of meltdown, or dad does,” she grinned, bumping her hip into his.

Her treacherous brother merely smiled wider.

“Jon’s coming,” he said simply, “did I not mention?”

She could have smacked the rueful and disgustingly charming grin from his face, as her smile dropped instantly.

“Poor bloke, you know he struggles since his mum dies, and I wouldn’t wish his fucking weird dad and his bizarre family on the Isle of Wight on anyone. Lucky to have it off work at all, thought he might as well come and make merry with us…”

Although his reasoning was sound, his smirk and determined Stark gaze made her want to shrink away into the Pantry. Instead she just glared and voiced her frustrations about having to alter her table settings at short notice.

She answers the door when Jon arrives. Accepts his kiss on each cheek with grace. Hands him a glass of the nice red wine and then hates herself for knowing that’s what he would want. They make small talk in front of Catelyn and Ned in the kitchen, before Robb comes in and distracts Jon from them, a Christmas miracle.

Lunch is still at the same time as it always was. 2pm sharp, their mother demands it is done and dusted before the Queen’s speech. That makes her smile, makes a joke that Ned will be asleep in his chair before the Queen has finished talking. Jon ends up sitting next to her at the table, amongst the moss and wild heather that reminds her of the father’s home in the Highlands, Jon is steered to his seat by Robb. Fucking idiot. Sansa tries to think of ways in which she can dispose of her brother’s body on Christmas Day which isn’t ideal. Maybe they are not as subtle as she had thought. Jon offers her his cracker to pull, she wins, she doesn’t read the joke but dons the silver crown with haste, pulling her copper hair over her shoulder and down her chest like a trail of fire.

“A queen in a paper crown,” Jon whispers, mirth in his eyes.

He’s fucking flirting with her, in front of her whole family at her father’s table. She rolls her eyes, despite the blush that is likely staining her cheeks and she hates it, hates him too. Its probably something she would have liked to have heard from him when she was eighteen, but she’s closer to her thirties now than her teenage years. Now she just doesn’t know whether to fucking strangle or straddle him. She could strangle herself at the way she presses her stocking clad thighs together under her black dress. She sinks her third glass of Prosecco.

Despite talk of crowns and queens, dinner is a success. Catelyn Stark kills them all, death by turkey and overindulgence. She slips out after the Queen’s address and her father’s toast, bless his forever monarchist heart, he will be asleep in ten minutes. She escapes to the front steps, sitting down on the cold stone, fingers itching for distraction. She hears the door open and click behind her, stretches her spine in anticipation as Jon takes the seat next to her. He takes her hand automatically, cold skin on cold skin. She grips it on reflex before she can warn herself off.

“My lady,” he says softly. Old childhood nickname, she hated it as a teenager, she wont ever admit she quite likes it now.

“Doctor,” she drawls, gazing back out across the road, empty, no cars, no people, as a grey evening begins to descend, sky already darkening a fraction. Focuses on the twinkling lights that adorn the house opposite instead of the way his thumb skirts circles across the back of her hand.

“Its been quite a year,” he begins. She knows he’s just grasping for something to say, so she bites back her sarcastic comment. He’s seen the scars on her back too, she knows he doesn’t need to hear it. So, she just hums, in agreement and descent.

“Next year will be worse, I think.”

She doesn’t think, she knows. Trial. Witness testimony. Odds are stacked against her, but she has to try. For _everyone_ , for _herself,_ she has to try. More sessions with Therapist Thatcher, so she can work on her self-loathing, and maybe ditch the obsession and utter longing she knows she has for the man who is holding her hand at this very moment. There are old wounds to heal with her family still. She wants new kitchen cupboards too, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Things often get worse, before they get better,” he says in seriousness.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have truly wonderful bedside manner, Dr Delicious?”

He groans in response, mumbling a torrent of swear words and she thanks god for Theon divulging that hilarious titbit to her, absolutely worth it.

“Can you stop deflecting with sarcasm for five minutes so I can just tell you how fucking amazing I think you are, how that I know its going to be utter shit for a few months, but that I know you can do it, you will get through it Sans.”

She releases a breath. Turns to him, swivelling her knees against him and she thinks for maybe one delusional second that maybe he is right. Maybe she will be better one day, once she can put it all to bed. Maybe she can be happy again, with him or with someone, maybe fucking will feel solely about pleasure again one day. Maybe she can love and be loved.

As she has her childish fancies, she notices he is looking at her lips, as she has been looking at his, beautiful and plush as they are. It’s a silly few seconds, she knows she wont love again, it nearly killed her before, she nearly killed herself, but she’s a masochist and a romantic all the same. So, she kisses him. Gently at first, leaning forward, like he’s a flame she can’t tear her eyes from, cold lips brushing, but that’s the catalyst, and as he presses his mouth deeper to hers she fists his shirt in her hand, pulling him closer, nipping at his lips with her teeth and that’s is it… He groans into her mouth, hand splayed on the small of her back as he pulls her closer, legs slotted together.

It’s his tongue against hers that makes her whimper. It’s his tongue, soft and languid that makes her think of the night they had together, mere hours that she cannot forget no matter how hard she tries, because he had made her come, again and again with that fucking tongue when Joffrey hadn’t in a couple of years. And it was that tongue and the memory of it that made her push away from him, fingers against her lips as she rested her forehead against him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered, because she is sorry. She’s confusing and contradictory and she wants him more than she should. She’s been giving him the cold shoulder ever since they slept together and now she’s kissing him and it isn’t fair.

“It’s ok, I know, I know,” and she half loves him for it, because the good doctor has always been too good, “I know you’re not ready,” he says, like it’s the simplest and easiest thing in the world, “I know you are not ready right now.”

She’s using every ounce of herself to not cry, but for once she thinks they might be happy tears, because he knows she isn’t ready, and he doesn’t push, he never has. She hasn’t known anything like that before. Her answer is no. That’s enough for him. And she knows in that very moment that if she never changes her mind, if she’s never ready for more, he would never mention it ever again, not for as long as either of them live.

_And she loves him for it._

_And her heart breaks._ For him and her both.

She doesn’t say anything, just wipes the smudge of nude lipstick from his wonderful lips with her thumb and she tries to breath. They both hear to front door rattle behind them, Sansa knows whoever it is on the other side of the multicolours glass is taking more time then they need. Subtle.

“Fuck off, Snow,” her brother says dryly, “I need to talk to the Sugar Plum Fairy,” kicking him playfully as he comes into view. They have moved their heads apart at this point, but they are still indecently close, although neither of them seems to care anymore. She knows it’s true when Jon brushes her hair behind her ear as he stands.

“Merry Christmas, Sans,” he says.

“Merry Christmas, Jon,” she mirrors his farewell softly.

She knows its farewell, for a little while or for a time, neither of them knows. But they cannot do this again, stolen kisses and orgasms when she cannot even care for herself, let alone anyone else. It’s as much for him as it is for her. She holds onto that for dear life.

“Nice lipstick Snow,” Robb drawls, dropping onto the step as Jon reaches the door. Jon runs a hand across his face. Dead giveaway. He scowls, mutters something about him being a wanker and is then gone, disappearing behind the glass.

She waits a few beats, Jon’s already told her off for her tendencies to divert when she is in a corner, but he isn’t hear anymore.

“I could murder one of your secret cigarettes Robb,” she starts.

He exhales in shock, hand across his heart.

“Me too, but not a chance, Catelyn Stark has the nose of a bloodhound, and I’m already on her radar. If I have to hear her tell me _its about time I settle down with a nice girl_ , I might pull my ears off,” he huffs, she knows he’s only teasing.

“Well you should, your thirty Robb, it’s scandalous,” she adopts Catelyn’s shrill address and they both laugh, it’s uncanny really.

“I’m taking one for the team this year, as long as it makes you smile,” he shrugs. She loves him, the dear idiot.

“I think I’m off the hook for at least another year,” she smiles triumphantly.

“Sympathy vote,” he nudges her, and she laughs again, “How’s Jon? Poor fool…” he prompts, eyebrow cocked in amusement.

She sighs, knows there is no use hiding it anymore.

“How long have you known?”

“Known what exactly, my sweet sister? That you’ve fancied him like a schoolgirl? Only since you were sixteen,” he doesn’t wait for her answer and she feels her eyes widen at his candour, but he isn’t done yet, “or that something happened between you two around my birthday? Since the morning after, when his incessant pining truly began…”

She grimaces and looks down. They’ve always been close, her disappearance from society not included, but she doesn’t want to talk to him about how his best friend fucked her into a utopic oblivion against him wall, on Jon’s kitchen table, and at least twice in his bed.

“Or… that he is completely and hopelessly in love with you? Since you were about sixteen too, I think…”

She gasps at that. Must be lying but he soldiers on despite her protestations.

“It’s true. He ignored your existence because of it, fucking idiot,” he sighs, knows he means it affectionately, “you know he’s got his own issues, doesn’t think he’s good enough for anyone, why do you think he’s a doctor? Always trying to fucking prove himself. Doesn’t make it any less true, that he’s been gone on you for years, too much of a coward to do anything about it when we were younger, or when you were at Uni together, and then well, he was too late…”

He sighs again, deep and painful, her brother’s heart aches just the same as hers, he’s seen her hurt laid bare too.

“I think he thought he could fix it all, a couple of months ago, thought he could love you enough to take it all away, but he can’t. I think he knows that now… only you can do that,” he turns to her finally, tracks her eyes and she realises only now that he’s crying, her dear, sweet, darling Robb, and she couldn’t stop her tears now for all the tea in England, “only you can do that,” he repeats again, “only you can love yourself enough to take it all away, or at least move on, or breath or something. I don’t fucking know Sans. But I know you can do it, but you need to try.”

She leans on his shoulder and cries some more, his arm wrapped heavily around her. They sit like that till they cannot feel their legs, numb from the cold as darkness descends across London, lights twinkling around them, in every direction. He doesn’t complain. He just sits. She hears him sniff away his tears, thumbing his cheeks and then hers.

It’s the realest thinks anyone has said to her in a long time. Because its all over now, Christmas. The lights will be put away, cold and wrapped neatly, free of knots, leftover Turkey turned into curries across the country, gift wrap recycled. The country will move on, another day, another week, another month, another year. She’ll miss the Christmas lights, the magic of it all, but she can unpack it all again, another time, if she wants, if she’s ready. Maybe her life is like those lights she loves so much too, or maybe it can be.

And after an eternity, she sits up and nods.

“Ok, I’ll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realised, mainly through my poor planning and your amazing comments, that I have unearthed some real issues for Sansa in this story. Issues any person is unlikely to deal with, positively or negatively in the space of a few weeks. Many of us will have experienced that healing takes time, so I've decided to turn this into a bit of a series, as we explore Sansa learning to love herself again, and hopefully find her happy ending, I hope you can stick with me, if you can. 
> 
> I think our next instalment will feature some sort of New Year celebration. If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. 
> 
> Peace and Love to you all.  
> Rose xx

**Author's Note:**

> Current mood:  
> 50% - might continue?  
> 40% - this is rubbish?  
> 10% - where is that mince pie I left laying about?


End file.
